Master of the House

I pulled into a lay-by near the entrance and got out, breathing in the air with its ever-present whiff of fertiliser. The blank wall of Willingham Hall faced me and I faced it. If I walked on another half-mile, I would come to the secret way in through the woods. Was I ready for that?

I walked up anyway. The road was quiet – it didn’t really lead anywhere except to the hills. The late-afternoon sun went behind a cloud and the swish of the trees in a little gust of wind was almost more unnerving than total silence would have been. More unnerving and much more evocative.

Here, a little way after the wall ended, was the broken section of wire fence. If I squeezed through the gap, I would be in the woods behind the house. I looked into the dark tangle of bark and branch and saw myself there, twenty years ago, allowed to play there while mum cleaned in the school holidays. I was against a tree, a captured squaw. The game was exhilarating and I enjoyed being caught and marched to my doom, until he broke off a section of branch and whipped my legs with it.

I shut my eyes tight as the memory flashed through; the pain, then the fear, then his sneering face right up against mine. I was seven, he was nine.

I can do what I like to you.

When mum had asked about the marks, I said I got caught on some brambles.

That holiday, and for all those that followed, I did everything I could to avoid having to go with mum to the Hall. I invited myself to Jamila’s; I offered to help Mrs Wragg, the caravan site owner, with all her errands; I even joined the church summer holiday club. Oh, how many brasses did I rub, all in the name of avoiding Joss Lethbridge.

Of course, I couldn’t get away with it every time. At least once a week I’d have to pack a bag with books and toys and trudge with mum up the long, long driveway. I’d follow her and her vacuum cleaner from room to room until, inevitably, Joss would track us down and ask if I was coming to play.

I’d say I was feeling sick, or I had hay fever, or was coming down with chickenpox, but mum never seemed to cotton on.

‘He’s trying to be friendly, Lucy-In-The-Sky-With-Diamonds.’ (Yes, that is my full registered name.) ‘Don’t mind her, Joss, she’s in a mood. It’s very kind of you to ask her.’

He didn’t always hurt me. Sometimes he was even quite nice. But that seemed all part of the game with him. I suppose he thought it kept me on my toes.

Whatever he thought, it was an occasion of major rejoicing when I left primary school and was deemed old enough to take care of myself in the summer holidays.

I tried to put a foot forward, to place it on that old ground, but a rush of something both bitter and sweet prevented me and I turned away, blinking out tears.

I thought about going to the caravans and looking up Mrs Wragg, but I wasn’t really fit for conversation and ended up driving back home.

When I say ‘home’, I mean the tiny one-bedroomed flat above Tylney Pet Supplies that mum occupied.

I fell into a coughing fit halfway through announcing my presence, my throat clogged by a cloud of patchouli joss-stick smoke, entwined with something a little less legal.

Mum was lying back on her collection of kilims and cushions with a guy in a New Model Army T-shirt. They had matching nose rings, which was nice.

‘How was the fete?’ asked the guy, I think he was known as Animal, more because he was a drummer in a band than because of any anti-social habits.

It was an innocuous enough question, but it sent both of them into paroxysms of giggles.

‘Great. Mum, do you know who’s taken the lease at Willingham Hall?’

She tried to focus, but the effort required was too great.

‘What? Dunno. Hey, did you know Lord Lethy … bridge … died?’

‘I just found out. Joss’s not living there, I suppose?’

She shrugged.

‘Put a brew on, will you?’

That was Animal.

‘Do it yourself.’

I huffed into the bedroom, which was not mine, but the only place I could get a bit of peace and quiet and breathable air. I opened the window wide, replacing fragrant smoke with dry dog food and hamster bedding. Not much better, to be honest. I shut it again.

Lying flat on the bed, I looked up at the mobiles on the ceiling.

The room was sparsely furnished – a wicker bookcase, a reclaimed dresser covered in cheap beaded knick-knacks, a spider plant. It wasn’t much to show for a life, I thought. Mum was nearly fifty and this was everything she owned. But she was happy. Perhaps I should take a leaf from her book, travel light, live for the moment.

You’re so serious, Lucy-in-the-Sky. How did I make such a square?

Whenever I was around mum, I felt like a teenager again. My rebellion had taken a mirror-image form from the usual. No trying to get into nightclubs with a bottle of smuggled cider for me. I’d joined the Vale Operatic Society and spent my spare time reading about the politics of central Europe.

But at night, in my bed, I’d been less sober and sensible. At night, I’d thought about Joss and the cold look in his eye when he laughed at my distress.

I can do what I like to you became something other than a threat in those lonely bewildering nights. It was a dark promise, a hint of unspeakable pleasures that I could only guess at. I would remember how it felt when Joss twisted my arm behind my back and the recollection of my helplessness reached a pitch of such intensity that it seemed natural to put my fingers between my thighs and rub.

I hated myself for seeing his face when I came, but it was his face I always saw and his name I always spoke in the drugged aftermath of orgasm. It wasn’t exactly pleasurable – it was too guilty and furtive for that – but there was nothing I could do to change it.

I tried to tell myself I wasn’t mad for feeling this way, but I had my doubts. In reality, I hated him for everything he had done to me. The Joss in my head was not the Joss of flesh and blood but a fantasy creature I could warp to my will. I suppose, looking back, it was my way of dealing with how badly he had hurt me. Perhaps it wasn’t the most emotionally healthy way of processing it, though.

I sat up. I didn’t want to be thinking this. I wanted to know what was going on at the Hall. I didn’t want to sit through mum’s bloody Chumbawumba album either. I still had the general office number for Willingham Estates on my mobile phone.

I took a deep breath and dialled.

Obviously half past five on a Saturday afternoon in June wasn’t going to find the place manned, and I resigned myself to having to leave a voicemail message, but I was surprised when the ringing was cut off after two beeps and a female voice answered.

‘Willingham Estates, hello.’

‘Oh. Hello. You’re in.’

‘Yes. May I help you?’

‘Well, I was just wondering if Lord Lethbridge was available. I need to ask him something.’

A pause.

‘Who is this, please?’

‘So he is still living at the Hall?’ I could barely speak and I had to hold the phone tight to prevent it slipping from my sweaty fingers.

‘Who is this?’

‘Lucy Miles. Can you tell him Lucy Miles would like to talk to him?’

‘Lucy Miles?’

There was a kerfuffle and the next voice I heard knocked all the breath out of my body.